The box came open and the smell—

The box came open and the smell—

not memory exactly, just smell,

dust and time and something else

that used to be a person.

I couldn't process through the shaft of light

fast enough. The dust moved,

heavy, slow, the way old things

move when you finally disturb them.

Clothes. A watch. Receipts.

All of it carrying the same particular

staleness that means nothing in the world

wanted this to change.

I held a sweater I'd never seen before,

and it smelled like the years

between now and then.

Like proof that someone else

lived here once.

I put it back.

Closed the box.

The light moved on.

But the smell

stayed in my hair

all afternoon.